If You're A Bird, I'm A Bird
by flying-cars
Summary: It was, perhaps, a sick injustice that after the war, Hermione Granger was shoved into Azkaban. "You're crazy, I'm crazy. There's no one else out there who can match us. May as well stick together."


It was, perhaps, a sick injustice that after the war, Hermione Granger was shoved into Azkaban.

The Golden Trio became a Duo once the ministry realised everything they'd done on their hunt for horcruxes – everything Hermione had done – stealing, casting unauthorised protective spells, taking away people's memories…

It was like Harry and Ron had been expecting this backlash, for they weren't surprised when Hermione received her letter of summons. They seemed more relieved that it wasn't addressed to them.

The trial was short and bittersweet. Harry and Ron weren't allowed to accompany her – they assured her they would if they could, but didn't wake up early enough to send her off or say goodbye – so Hermione walked alone past the Department of Mysteries to the old courtrooms, dedicated specifically for war crimes.

"Miss Hermione Granger, you are sentenced for the following charges: unauthorised use of magic, performing an Unforgiveable Curse…"

Hermione vaguely realised she hadn't done that, but it was _Harry_ who cast it, but she didn't deny it; her going to Azkaban was hard enough, she didn't want Harry in there too. Besides, denying it made her look guilty.

"… Stealing during war time, avoiding capture and being a known, wanted fugitive of the law…"

A lot of fancy words that condemned her for staying alive. Still, Hermione kept her mouth shut. She knew she was going to Azkaban, but she also knew Harry would get her out.

"What do you plead?"  
"Not guilty," Hermione said automatically. Mentally she chastised herself; pleading guilty would have made her look like she was doing penance, and perhaps her sentence would be shorter for her honesty… oh well, it was too late to take it back. The Wizengamot had finished deliberating.

"… Miss Granger, you have been sentenced to precisely three years of Azkaban from this date, the twentieth day of July. Court dismissed."

Hermione felt numb. She'd miss Harry's birthday. Rough hands grabbed her upper arms and began leading her through a backdoor.

"Let me go," Hermione demanded, shaking herself out of her reverie. She tried to pull her arm out of the grip, but to no avail. She'd have bruises. "Let me go, I said! Do you know who I am? You should be thanking me for saving the world, not forcing me into jail!"  
"Be quiet, of course we know who you are," one of her holders snapped. "But you still have to pay for your crimes, otherwise the court isn't just, do you understand?"

Of course she understood. That didn't mean she liked it.

"Three years is unfair," Hermione replied stubbornly. "Can I at least get changed?"  
"No," her other capturer said, and that was all Hermione remembered before waking up in a dank, dark cell.

* * *

Hermione's prim and perfect dark blue skirt and blazer had long since turned to a dirty black. She was thrown, upon arrival, the typical striped outfit most prisoners wore, but Hermione refused to change into it, instead opting to use it as a pillow. She would change into it when her current clothes were falling off her skin. In saying that, they weren't doing too well.

Hermione had lost track of the days in her mind after about two weeks, and her body clock was messed up since she couldn't see the sky. It could be night time, six months after her arrival. Or it could be morning, a month after her sentence. She just didn't know. She could only guess, judging by the state of her clothes – filthy black from the greasy floor she was on, and tattered from the stone walls. She didn't want to think about what her hair looked like, though it felt heavy and oily against her fingers. Prisoners were only allowed a shower occasionally for two minutes under cold water. Hermione wondered if it was worth it.

The level of Azkaban she was on she didn't know. Her cell wasn't mouldy or moist, so Hermione figured it wasn't near the bottom, closer to the sea. The utmost top levels were reserved for the most fierce, most deserving prisoners, where Dementors patrolled constantly, so Hermione assumed she was not up there. Dementors only passed her cell once a day, if that.

They had sucked all of Hermione's memories out of her. She could remember Hogwarts – its stone walls so different from the ones she was caged with, the icy air from the Astronomy Tower bearing a resemblance to the air in her prison. When she thought of her classes, of the Weasley's, of her grades, she didn't feel joy like she knew she should. It was just a memory with no emotional strings attached.

There were a few memories that startled her, because they made her feel something. Memories of hate and loathing, of fierce anger. Voldemort. Dumbledore, occasionally. Draco Malfoy. Bellatrix Lestrange. Once, she thought of Harry and Ron and succumbed into the intense resentment she felt, for they left her here to rot in Azkaban – it could be months since she'd gotten here and she hadn't received a single letter from them. Hermione felt her dislike for them run in her bones.

Hermione chuckled at the irony. Her best friends were now her jailors. Oh, how she hated them.

"Hermione?"

Hermione's head tilted slowly to the side. She recognised that voice, but did she imagine it? She had just been thinking of him, after all… Hermione looked towards the bars of her cell and there was no mistaking that hair.

"Well," Hermione murmured, her voice slow and croaky from lack of use. "Fancy seeing you here, Malfoy."  
Draco gulped visibly and the guard who stood a few feet behind him rolled his eyes. "What are you doing here?" he asked Hermione.  
"Enjoying a holiday," Hermione drawled. Slowly, she tried to stand and managed after only a few stumbles. Prison life did not suit her. "What the hell do you THINK?" she yelled, tripping forward to land on the bars. Draco backed away hurriedly.

"How… how long have you been here?" Draco asked.  
"What's the date?"  
"Thirty first of December."  
"I've been in here since the twentieth of July," Hermione said. If nothing else, that date stuck in her head. "That's over five months. Didn't take long to crack me, did it?" Hermione gave a single laugh, completely void of humour. "Happy fucking New Year to me, and what's my reward for lasting yet another miserable year? A visit from Draco Malfoy. Yipee."  
"Time to go," the guard said, moving on. Draco remained still, staring at Hermione with wide eyes, unable to look away. Like a train wreck.

Blinking, Draco threw the guard a small bag. "I'm not going to see Lucius anymore," he said firmly. "Tell no one."

The guard bowed and disappeared out of Hermione's line of sight. Draco cautiously stepped forward and sat as close to the bars as he could. He peered at her through them.

"I'm honoured that you find me more interesting than your father, Malfoy," Hermione said, sinking down onto the floor to sit as well.  
"I'm just astounded that you haven't been busted out yet," he said casually. Hermione hadn't noticed, but there was a newspaper tucked underneath Draco's arm. "Not much of a Golden Trio if one's stuck in jail, eh?"  
"Not really," Hermione said. "Do people still call us that?"  
"Not really."

They lapsed into silence and Hermione couldn't help but wonder why he was there. Staring at her like she was crazy.

"Why are you here?" she asked at last. "With me instead of your father?"  
"I'm here with you because it's interesting to see how low you've sunk," Draco said, leaning forward. "It's intriguing to know that this is the fate your so called best friends have left you to. It's empowering to know that you don't even realise why you're here, and I do."

Hermione wasn't falling for that. She couldn't even find it within herself to care that Draco was being a jerk.

"What happened to your father?" Hermione asked instead. Draco, seeing that he wasn't going to get a rise out of her, slumped.  
" _Lucius_ is going to receive the Kiss in a week," he said. "Mother forced me to come say goodbye. She's waiting outside."  
"Too bad," Hermione said heartlessly. Draco shrugged, equally unbothered.  
"They dobbed you in, you know."

It took Hermione a minute to realise that Draco was referring to Harry and Ron. Her brainpower wasn't what it used to be. She raised a brow, gesturing for Draco to continue.

"The ministry was going to put all three of you in here, but they shifted the blame onto you because you're the best at magic, and therefore it was the best cover up."  
"They wouldn't," Hermione said automatically, but she didn't know why she was so defensive all of a sudden. She knew deep down that she was stuck in Azkaban thanks to her friends, and once she was released she'd still be alone.

"The strange thing is, I don't think they expected you to go along with it. Sometimes I wonder if they knew you at all. You took it like a good soldier because you didn't want to hurt your friends. And here you are, rotting away in a cell, whilst they're living the highlife and have forgotten all about you."  
"I doubt they've forgotten _all_ about me," Hermione snorted, acting with more confidence than she really felt. Draco handed her the newspaper through the bars and Hermione took it gingerly, unfolding it to reveal the front page.

 _Ronald Weasley… Engaged!_

Hermione threw it back to Draco. "What do I care?" she asked. "Ron never liked me anyway."

Draco cleared his throat. " _Mister Ronald Weasley, war hero, has recently announced his engagement to the beauty Lavender Brown. 'What does the rest of the Golden Trio think of this latest news?' I asked the celebrity. Ronald gave me a winning smile. 'Harry is all for it,' he said. 'Supports me in everything!'"_

"Stop," Hermione said harshly, but Draco continued reading the article.

" _'_ _And Hermione Granger?" I asked. 'Who?' Ronald eloquently replied. 'Oh, um, we haven't really spoken lately. I'm sure she's happy though.'"_

Draco lowered the newspaper slowly. "The general story is that you moved out of the country to find your parents," he said solemnly. Hermione pursed her lips.  
"But they're dead," Hermione whispered. "Harry knows that."  
"It's just a cover story," Draco said. "They knew that no one would question your absence if they had a good enough story."  
"And you?" Hermione demanded. "You knew it was a cover up?"  
"Yes," Draco admitted.  
"How?"  
"I was one of the people who had to question them. They didn't try to pay me off or anything, but when Potter blamed you for the Unforgiveable I knew he was lying. You didn't have that sort of magic inside you." Draco tilted his head, letting his blonde hair fall into his eyes. "Though, you might have it now, now that you've experienced the hatred that comes with being a prisoner."

"I've never felt anything like it before," Hermione whispered. The more she spoke to Draco, the more she realised how odd her feelings were, and how insane she had felt before seeing someone normal. "I'm not suited for Azkaban, Malfoy. Torture is one thing. Prolonged exposure to… to this _place_ … is another."  
"I know," Draco said.

Lapsing into silence once more, Hermione's head whirled. It felt clearer than it had at any time over the past five months.

"You said that you wondered if Harry and Ron ever knew me at all," Hermione remembered. "Almost like you do."  
Draco nodded once. "I'm not an expert, Granger," Draco said stiffly. "But I'm not daft."  
"Are you going to tell them that you saw me?"  
"We aren't friends, you know. I don't talk to them at all."  
" _Will_ you tell them?"  
Draco looked at her sympathetically. "Do you really want me to do that?" he asked. Hermione sighed.  
"I suppose not."

The betrayal was just starting to settle in her stomach. Hermione didn't think she'd be able to look at either Harry or Ron in the eyes ever again. If she ever got the chance. Draco had truly enlightened her – the vague hope that she had felt, that the dementors had been unable to take away from her because it wasn't happy, the hope that she'd see Harry's green eyes or Ron's red hair again faded away. They'd thrown her under the bus and ran from the crime scene. She resented them.

"I'm not going to make it, Draco," Hermione whispered. It felt like a lifetime since she'd been thrown in here, but it was only five months. She knew she wouldn't make it out alive.  
"Don't say that," he said sharply, but Hermione ignored him.  
"I can feel it, in my bones," Hermione said, her voice breaking but no tears appearing. "I can feel my nutrition levels fading, I can feel my heart losing strength. My body isn't producing the chemicals it should. I can't cry anymore, did you know?"  
"No," Draco replied stiffly. He looked severely uncomfortable with the conversation, but Hermione didn't care. What use was pretending? Why shouldn't she express her anger? But Draco didn't deserve that. She wanted to see Harry and Ron, and she wanted them to sink as far as she had, she wanted them to have nightmares about her the way she had nightmares.

"Do you want me to get you out?" Draco asked. Hermione looked at him with wide eyes. She never really saw him before. The aristocrat charade covered his more subtle aspects – that one eyebrow sat higher than the other without effort, that his bottom lip was fuller than the other, that his nose was slightly crooked towards the end from where she'd punched him.

"No," Hermione said. Draco looked shocked, or relieved, Hermione couldn't tell. "I want to sit in here and rot, either until I die, or until I'm released, and I want to see the looks on Harry bloody Potter and Ronald bloody Weasley's faces when they see what a mess they made me. I want them to see the damage they've caused. I want them to be sorry for what they've done." Hermione leant away from Draco and scooted into her corner that she used as a bed. "If you do see them, Draco, tell them that I'm waiting," Hermione added darkly.

Draco recognised a dismissal when he saw one, but he was too enraptured by Hermione's current state to realise it straight away. Seeing his father and saying a final goodbye seemed so much less important than watching Hermione fidget like a caged animal. Less important than watching as, the more they spoke, the more normal she appeared.

"I'll come back," Draco said suddenly, so quietly that he wondered if Hermione heard. She tilted her head slightly, looking at him much like an owl.  
"Don't bother," she snorted. "I'll probably be dead."

* * *

Much to her distaste, Hermione was still alive two weeks later. The dementors had sucked out the brief relief of Draco's visit, which Hermione realised too late was joy, and had taken the hope that she'd survive the three years, if only to see her best friends suffer. She no longer felt satisfaction. She no longer lingered over the possibility Harry or Ron would send her a letter, visit her, release her. She moped over her daily serving of a mockery of rice.

"Father's been Kissed," Draco Malfoy said suddenly. Hermione didn't notice he was there, too enraptured in her own thoughts. He was wearing a deep navy suit. He must have just come from the ceremony.

"Probably the best snog he's had in a while," Hermione said. She thought she saw Draco's eyes flash with anger, but he didn't comment on it. What did she care? She picked up the rice with her fingers and ate it. The jail didn't allow cutlery, not even plastic.

"Maybe they were right to let you sit in here," Draco said conversationally, with an underlying tone of manipulation that Hermione was not unaccustomed to. "To let you rot. I can't blame them, with all your negativity and spite."

"The dementors," Hermione said by way of an explanation. "Don't lie, Malfoy. I know you prefer me like this."

Draco looked confused as he sunk to his knees, now eye level with Hermione, and she took advantage of this, creeping forward on her hands and knees until she was almost nose to nose with him. His breathing hitched. "Don't pretend you don't like the new me. The coldness. The heartlessness. The lack of desire to prove anything. The inability to care that I am literally on my knees in front of you, helpless, unable to do anything about this, with you in the position of power. Don't think I don't understand what goes on in that head of yours, Malfoy. I've changed. You haven't. That's why you're back again. You just can't help yourself."

"What makes you think you ever understood anything in my brain anyway?" Draco asked quietly, and Hermione shrugged in an answer.  
"If I had understood any sooner, I would have thrown you in a mental asylum."

Draco didn't really understand what Hermione was saying about him, but he was sure he ought to be offended. Hermione lay herself down onto the ground on her stomach, resting her head in her hand and twirling her hair, her feet swinging in a slow, careless movement.

"You'd be a perfect cell mate, Draco."  
"Why?"  
"Because dementors can't take away what I feel when you're around. Anger. Spite. Curiosity. Those are things they cannot touch, and they are things that make me feel more than animalistic."  
"I'm not going to commit a crime just so we can room together, Granger."  
"You should."  
"You're going around the bend," Draco scoffed, distracting himself from the uneasiness he felt when Hermione looked at him with her once-innocent brown eyes.

"I've already been."

* * *

Days passed. Or months. Or years. Hermione was sleeping more than ever, and she didn't care. When she was first thrown into her cell, she'd tried to keep her body clock correct by staying awake until she no longer could stand, and refusing to nap. She now realises how foolish it was. Time would have passed faster. The more she slept, the faster time went. It was too bad dementors could take her dreams, though.

"They should be here," she said to herself. "Not me. I didn't do the curses. They shared the protective charms with me. They probably bought their way out of it."

"I highly doubt Weasley could afford that."

"You're right, he's far too poor, but Harry would have paid for him, because that's what friends do, right? They _look after_ each other. _Care_. _Support._ Where did I go wrong? What didn't I do for them, what didn't I sacrifice? I can't fucking believe this is how they repay me! Look at this cell, look at my clothes! And they're out there, living the high fucking life."

"I beg to differ."

Hermione whirled around to face the bars. She'd been staring at the dank stone all morning, and Draco seemed like a beam of sunlight in comparison. She winced.

"I doubt you'd beg anything, Draco, especially not in my presence."

Draco threw Hermione the newspaper he'd been holding. "Headline news," he said gleefully, watching Hermione carefully.

" _War Heroes: LIARS_?" Hermione read carefully. She looked up to see Draco smirking, and the familiarity of it made her heart twist. " _On April 20_ _th_ _, Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley were called before the Wizengamot to undergo a hearing at the request of a Magical Law Enforcement officer... The Wizengamot underwent extensive questioning of the heroes, whom were under the influence of Veritaserum and Legilimancy... They admitted to false testimonials… Charges have not yet been revealed..."_ Hermione looked up at Draco curiously. "Did you do this?"

"Didn't take more than a couple hundred galleons, either," Draco smirked. Hermione stared at the paper for another minute. Harry looked so aged, his photo-self hiding his eyes from her accusing ones, and Ron nowhere to be found. She screwed the paper into a ball and threw it at Draco.

"I don't care," Hermione snapped furiously. "The truth being revealed is still not going to get me out of here, and now I'm going to be stuck with those boys pleading for my forgiveness. You've cursed me, Malfoy."

"This is the opposite of a curse, Granger," Draco said, reaching through the bars to get Hermione to look at him. She snapped her teeth at his fingers, but looked at him nonetheless. He looked thrilled. "This is payback. This is a chance for you to watch them rot, watch them fall from grace, in a front row seat. They could be placed in those cells opposite you, and dammit Granger, I'll provide the popcorn if I have to. "

Hermione felt fury boiling up inside of her and she was so tempted to express it all with Draco as her punching bag. She resisted the urge.

"They mean nothing to me," Hermione said firmly. "You're trying to manipulate me into something. What do you want in return for your charity work?"

"I want to watch them rot in here too."

* * *

Hermione changed into her thin jail suit for the occasion. Harry and Ron were moved in to the cells opposite Hermione as Draco had predicted. She could see half of each of their cells, and she sniggered at the triangle shape they made. The Golden Trio, reunited.

Hermione felt nothing at the sight of her two best friends. Nothing but cold disregard, resentment, and more than a little fury. She could remember her hope to see Harry, but felt nothing any longer. Hermione recalled the softer feelings she had for Ronald once, but could never truly feel them, and the harder she tried, the more the dementors focused on her. She gave up, and revelled in the peace.

Harry had tried to speak to Hermione, but she never listened. She couldn't find it within herself to feel bad about her snappy retorts. Harry soon gave up and instead spent many hours staring at her, in awe or in shock or in disbelief, Hermione didn't know. She didn't care. Strangely enough, talking to Harry (if she could even call it that) didn't clear her mind the way Draco could. The cloudiness only intensified, her animalistic nature coming out fiercely. She knew Harry was afraid of her, on some level, and part of her liked that.

Neither Harry nor Ron was allowed visitors. Ron was especially furious about this, which Hermione first believed to be because of his engagement with Lavender, but soon realised it was because he missed his mother's cooking, and evidently hoped she'd sneak him some on her visits.

"Congratulations on the engagement," Hermione had said when Ron was settled into his cell. Her raspy voice clearly disturbed him, but she noticed that he looked pleased with her praise. "Lavender must be so proud to be marrying a criminal."

His smile disappeared.

The dementors lingered longer in the corridor now, and Hermione was dizzy all the time. She resented the boys being in her area. This was her silent place for so long, and now Ron's snores filled the air. Harry's shifting echoed against the walls. Hermione fumed. This was Draco's fault. She was sure he paid someone to put them there especially for her.

As if her thoughts somehow drew him to her, Draco strolled into the prison in yet another impeccable suit. He was also wearing a vest, which Hermione liked. He paused in the centre of the trio's cells, looking at Harry and Ron in amusement.

"Sod off, Malfoy," Ron spat immediately, walking up to the bars and slamming his hands on them loudly. "You're not allowed to be here, no visitors!"  
"Lucky I'm not here for you, then," Draco replied, turning his back on him. He faced Hermione, smirking. "Enjoying your new cell mates?"  
"All thanks to you, I'm sure," Hermione said, her eyes roaming over Draco eagerly. She left the wall and stumbled over to the bars, gripping them roughly to keep her upright. It was always so hard to bear her weight on her legs.

Being up close to Draco was much more disconcerting with Harry and Ron watching her. She ignored them, and drunk in Draco's impeccable appearance. The suit was tailored, his shoes were polished, and Merlin, Hermione had never smelt anybody so clean.

"The guards wouldn't let me bring in popcorn," Draco said after Hermione had stared her full. "But I convinced them to let me bring this." From his pocket he pulled out a bar of Honeyduke's Best Chocolate, which was Hermione's favourite. She desperately wanted to take it. "It's yours if you want it."

Hermione's knees got very weak all of a sudden, and she collapsed onto the floor, giggling loudly about the incident. She'd scraped her hands on the stone, and knocked her head against the bars. Draco looked concerned for her, but Hermione only laughed harder. Draco sat down opposite her.

"Did you want it or not?" he asked, snapping his fingers to demand Hermione's full attention.  
"It is better to have none at all than simply a taste of what you cannot have more of," Hermione said in answer, twirling hair around her finger. Draco rolled his eyes, but ate the chocolate himself in front of her. She watched greedily, sniggering whenever the chocolate smeared around the corners of his mouth.

"Bloody hell, can you two take it somewhere else?" Ron grumbled from his cell.  
"Ron," Harry warned, but it fell on deaf ears.  
"Watching them makes me sick!"

Draco casually turned his head to look at Ron, as if he was going to say something, but Hermione bet him to it. "Then don't fucking watch us, and mind your own business, _Ronald,_ " she spat, amazed at the venomous undertone.

"Don't fight," Harry said quickly, naturally taking the role of the mediator. Hermione turned on him, eyes blazing.

"How dare you try to tell me what to do?" Hermione demanded, clutching the bars roughly, very much wanting them to be Harry's throat. "You throw me in here without any sort of explanation, you give me nothing whatsoever, you don't ever make contact with me, and now that you're in this hell hole you think you can just tell anyone what to do because you're Harry _fucking_ Potter and you're so _bloody_ brilliant? Well let me tell you something, Potter, you've got another thing coming for you, because this jail will rip through you and destroy you faster than any spell I can do, and I look forward to watching you and Ronald rot!"

"Calm down, Hermione," Draco said, poking at her fingers to unwrap them from the bars. Hermione ignored him, revelling in the hurt and shock on Harry's face. It was the most emotion she'd seen from him since he'd arrived, and when she looked over at Ronald, even he seemed a bit shocked by her words. "Never knew you had such a venomous tongue towards friendly faces."  
"I guess there are a lot of things you don't know about me."

Hermione began to get annoyed at Draco's insistent prodding and so she allowed her fingers to unwrap from the bars. Sliding them down the metal, she did nothing to stop her hand from collapsing roughly onto the stone floor.

"Mother's holding a charity ball," Draco said, indicating to his suit. "It's in an hour."  
"You must be so excited."  
"Won't be any fun without the fabulous three to pick on."  
"You could always pick on yourself, I assure you there's no shortage of material there."  
Draco snorted and looked at Hermione fondly. "This is why I wish you were out of here," he admitted. "It's so much easier to mock someone who mocks back."  
"Well, you've only got to wait a few more years before I'm free," Hermione said dryly.  
"Do you believe you'll make it that long?"  
Hermione sighed. "I really don't. I'm surprised I'm not dead already. I'm pretty sure I'm disintegrating into nothing, though. I'm so skinny."

"You'll get back into shape soon enough, I promise."

* * *

With Harry now in her area, Hermione was subject to the dementors more frequently than ever. They hovered around him every day, not always feeding from him, sometimes just wanting to be in his vicinity. Harry was frightened of them, Hermione knew – she doubted his boggart had changed much – but she admired his resolve. He did not cower into the corners of the cell like she did.

Ron was definitely suffering. He was so unused to being unhappy. Hermione was reminded of being cooped up in a tent with him for months, and she debated whether God was real, for if he were, surely he would be merciful enough to save her from reliving that period of her life. But on the other hand, perhaps he was real, because Hermione got a front row seat in watching him suffer – and the physical results of this suffering showed on Ron much more clearly than Harry; Ron was ghostly pale with black bags under his eyes. Even his hair seemed to be less vibrant. He'd stopped snoring.

A newspaper landed loudly at Hermione's feet and she was wrenched out of her thoughts. She did not daydream anymore. It was too difficult to summon the energy it took. Hermione looked to the bars to find Draco leaning against them, smirking at Ron, who simply closed his eyes in response. Clambering over to the newspaper took more effort than Hermione was willing to admit and she did it in a very undignified way, but she didn't care. The headline read: _Go Ireland!_

"I don't give a damn about quidditch, Malfoy," Hermione spat, but it came out as a croak, with only a few syllables making themselves heard. Draco looked at her in surprise.  
"Sorry, didn't quite catch that," he said. Hermione cleared her throat and repeated her statement. Draco rolled his eyes. "I know that, you idiot. Look at the date."

Hermione did. It was the twentieth of July. Had it really been a year already? Depression threatened to engulf Hermione and she made no effort to stop it. A year had passed in a haze of sleep and darkness and fury. How long had her best friends been opposite her? How long had it been since she'd spoken to them?

Draco was snapping his fingers at her. "Hermione," he said, and when she finally looked up at him, she realised he'd probably said her name several times. "Listen to me. Are you listening?"  
"Are you going to say anything worth listening to?" Hermione retorted, throwing the newspaper at him angrily. "What are you even doing here, Draco? This place is hell. Why would you waste your time watching me crumble into nothing? Watching them?"  
"I'm not here to watch you be destroyed," Draco said, leaning in close to the bars so that he didn't have to talk as loud. When he crooked his finger at Hermione, she crawled forward, albeit reluctantly. He squatted so they were eye to eye.

"By the end of the month, you'll be out of here," Draco whispered.

In an alternate universe, his promise filled Hermione with hope and glee. But this was reality and Hermione didn't have any hope left within her. She glared at the stone.

"By the end of the month, I'll be dead," she replied.

"Don't be dramatic, Granger. It's only eleven days."

"Eleven days of living hell. Tell me, Draco, was it _easy_ living under Voldemort for eleven days? Was it _simple_ , was it a _breeze_ for you?"

Draco remained silent.

"That's what I bloody well thought."

* * *

It was not eleven days later that Draco returned for her. It was sixteen. Not that she knew, because she had slept so often and remained awake for such little time. She hadn't been hopeful, either, that Draco was telling the truth. If she had been, the extra five-day wait surely would have destroyed her. But she remained blissfully ignorant right until the dementors unlocked her cell door.

"Come on, Granger. Up you get."

Hermione sleepily looked up at Draco. He was in a simple button down shirt and slacks, and she was somewhat disappointed he had foregone the suit for her release.

"I'm not sure I can," Hermione whispered.  
"Do you want me to help you?" Draco smirked, already making his way into her cell.  
"No," Hermione snapped. "I don't need your help."

But, as she made her way to her feet, she stumbled and collapsed, only miraculously not hitting the ground because Draco caught her. He looked at her pointedly, but Hermione ignored him.

"I want…" she whispered, then gestured to her ruined skirt and blazer she'd been using as a pillow. Black and greasy, Draco turned his nose up at it.  
"I'll buy you a new suit," he promised, but Hermione shook her head adamantly.  
"I want those," she said, in a stronger voice, and Draco sighed and collected it for her. She swayed unsteadily without him as a support.  
"Come on," he said, thrusting her clothes into her hands.

He led the way out of the cell to where the dementors were hovering, cold and intimidating. They didn't feed on Hermione or Draco, but it was clear that they wanted to. Hermione shakily walked out of the cell, feeling her oncoming freedom with every step.

"Where are you taking her?" Ron demanded, looking through the bars of the cell.  
"She hasn't completed her sentence," Harry added, though reluctantly. Hermione wondered if he was happy she was getting out, but then shook the thought away. The old Harry might have been. This new Harry definitely wasn't.  
"The Wizengamot has deliberated and has decided to be lenient towards Hermione's sentence now that new information has come to light about the precise events during your absence," Draco said snootily.  
"It was you, wasn't it?" Ron growled, clutching the bars tightly. "It was you who got that Law Enforcement Officer to look into us –"  
"I think I'll take the credit for that," Hermione interrupted, glaring at Ron. "Just because you and Harry decided to cut me off and refuse to make contact with me whilst I was here, doesn't mean everybody else did. I still have contacts in the Ministry who were more than happy to help me out."

Ron was flabbergasted and Hermione smirked at him, pleased at his response. She gestured to Draco that she wanted to move, and he led the way past the cells slowly, waiting for Hermione to regain some strength and get used to walking again.

"I'll miss you," Harry mumbled as Hermione passed his cell. She snorted in response.  
"I wouldn't waste your energy, Potter."

Once they'd made it through that level of Azkaban, Hermione collapsed onto Draco's arm. She was nowhere near as steady on her feet as she had pretended to be, and the energy it had cost her was overwhelmingly over what she possessed.

"Would you like me to carry you?" Draco asked sarcastically, and without shame Hermione nodded. With a dramatic sigh, he lifted Hermione bridal-style. She closed her eyes as they walked.

"Why did you say that to Weasley?" Draco questioned Hermione curiously. She looked at him tiredly.  
"I wanted them to know…" she yawned, "I wanted them to believe that anything they could do to me, I could do to them. Worse."

As her eyes slid shut, she thought Draco looked approving of her decision.

* * *

Hermione woke in a deadly soft bed. She was unfamiliar with such luxury, having forgotten was feather pillows were and the weight of a blanket and the _warmth_ that could be provided by a mattress. It took all of her energy to lift the mountainous blankets off of her and roll out of the bed. She fell onto the cold floor with a loud bang, and felt much more comfortable. Hermione passed out once more.

"Granger. Granger. Bloody stubborn, aren't you?"

Hermione's eyes flew open as she was lifted up the floor by a pair of strong arms and placed onto the bed once more. Her weak fingers clung to Draco's arm, covered by a simple white button down.

"I fell," she whispered. "Hungry."  
"I know," Draco whispered back. "Get some rest, I'll bring something up."

Hermione shook her head. She was weak, yes, but she was not tired anymore. Her mind hadn't felt this clear in months. She felt so… alive.

"Chocolate," Hermione said. The corner of Draco's mouth twitched. "And… and bread. Please."

Silently, Draco nodded and left the room, leaving Hermione with nothing to occupy her busy mind. Her eyes wandered around the room, unable to gather enough information at once. Paintings were framed in gold on the wall, landscapes Hermione recognised from France, portraits of people she didn't know (unmoving), abstract art that seemed out of place. Heavy black curtains blocked the windows, though they shone slightly red from the sun behind them. Three doors, dark mahogany, two on her right and one directly in front – the door Draco had left open, which undoubtedly lead to more rooms in Malfoy Manor.

Hermione decided that was where she was. Her sluggish mind was repairing itself quickly and she deduced it to be the most likely place Draco would take her – she most certainly was not at St Mungo's.

A tray of the food Hermione requested slid onto her lap, pushed gently by pale, nimble fingers. There was a variety of fruit there too – grapes, watermelon, apple slices – fresh food that made Hermione's mouth water.

"Sleep alright?" Draco asked Hermione lightly. She didn't answer, too busy tearing the crusts off the sliced bread he provided and eating it like an animal, stuffing as much into her mouth as she possibly could. "You'll be sick if you don't slow down."  
"I can have two servings then," Hermione quipped, waving off his concern. "I haven't eaten anything but rice in a year, Malfoy. I'll survive one puke if it means I can eat a feast."  
"Just one puke, then."

Draco watched Hermione ravage the food in front of her, demolishing the bread and fruit in a few minutes. She was saving the chocolate for last, he observed. Her brown eyes stared at it hungrily as she ate the other food first. When she finally allowed herself to have a square of Honeydukes Finest, she spoke.

"I've died, haven't I?"  
Draco couldn't help the laugh that escaped him. "Excuse me?"  
"I've died," Hermione repeated, a serious expression on her face. "And gone to… well, Heaven, I suppose. A bed that feels like clouds, freshly laundered clothing, a feast fit for a queen –"  
"If you think this is a feast, you wait until you see what I had planned for dinner."

But Hermione wasn't listening. She was still very used to being in her own mind, her own company, and had begun rambling to herself like she was used to.

"The only thing I'm not sure of is the location. Not my idea of heaven, obviously. I suppose it is luxurious. And the interior design has changed a little."

Draco wasn't sure what made him do it, but he reached out and cupped Hermione's cheeks in both hands, forcing her to make eye contact with him and recognise his presence. He couldn't help but notice that her cheeks were still so smooth after her time in prison.

"You're at the Manor," Draco said firmly, ignoring the leap in his heartbeat. "I didn't know where else to take you."  
"I'm not your responsibility," Hermione replied.  
"Where would you have gone?"  
"The B…"  
"Don't be ridiculous," Draco snorted. "With Weaselbee in Azkaban? Would you expect a round of hugs and smiles?"

Hermione wrenched her face out of Draco's grip, noting the lack of warmth immediately. It was incredible what the human touch could heal in such a short time.

"You're a terrible designer, Malfoy," she snapped, somehow wanting to hurt Draco's feelings even just a little, wanting to leave a small dent on his arrogant appearance, wanting to smack that smug smile off his face.

"This? This is nothing, Granger. Just you wait."

* * *

Hermione was practically bedridden for two weeks upon her return to life. Prison had severely weakened her, not just emotionally, but physically. She was unable to hold a quill for long periods of time without suffering from cramps, but Draco had been pushing her through, like a personal trainer would encourage one more squat. Deep down Hermione was grateful, but at the time she hated him.

"How long are you going to keep me here?" Hermione demanded Draco one evening, as he forced her to cut her steak with a butter knife rather than a sharp one, like his own.  
"Until you're recovered," he said, slicing his meat with ease.

"I've been here for a month, Malfoy," Hermione snapped. "I want to go shopping. I want my own clothes, my own food, my own stuff!"  
"And I'm saying, I can get it for you," Draco insisted.

Hermione didn't understand why he was being so pushy. She had wanted to leave the Manor for days now, but all he had allowed was a brief visit outside, where he had chased her through the gardens until she collapsed, her chest heaving from laughter and from exertion. But now the urge to return to daily life was nagging at her constantly.

"Draco, I haven't even got my wand," Hermione murmured. "Can we at least go to the Ministry and get it? Please."

Prisoner's wands were confiscated at their trial, held by the Ministry in storage near the courtrooms. Draco knew they were organised by date of trial, then alphabetically by surname. He had seen his colleagues place items away many times over the years.

"I'll pick it up for you today when I've finished work," Draco compromised. Hermione didn't look satisfied at this. "And we can go shopping in a few days. I don't want you going alone."  
"I don't need your protection."  
"You're going to."

* * *

"They're holding a charity event for the orphanage," Draco announced at dinner.  
"The Ministry?"  
Draco nodded. "It's on September first. Would you like to go?"

Hermione immediately wanted to say yes and had opened her mouth to do so when her heart jumped into her throat, blocking her airways. That would be her first appearance in wizarding society since she was released from Azkaban. She hadn't gained enough weight back, she hadn't got her full strength, couldn't get her magic to work the way it used to –

"It would be a nice debut," Draco was saying quietly. "We can get you a dress. Get a whole makeover for you, if you like. There'll be reporters there, photographers, you know the drill. A lot of recognisable people."  
"And the Weasley's?" Hermione guessed, making Draco smirk.  
"Maybe one or two."

* * *

Hermione had agreed to the whole makeover that Draco offered, if only to cover up the sallowness of her skin from her months away at sea. Her skin was now a light shade of brown instead of its previous ghostly white, her cheeks were puffed, the bags under her eyes hidden. The magic of makeup.

Hermione's dress was a pastel pink and she had a matching shawl that she wore around her elbows, hiding her scars. As she exited her bedroom, Draco greeted her with his elbow, indicating she held onto it.

"Just in case," he smirked.  
"Bugger off, Malfoy."

Hermione felt much more like her old self after going shopping the day previous. She had her wand in her possession and sturdy black flats on her feet. She was wearing underwear that she bought herself, deodorant that she had picked, and jewellery that she liked. She could walk at the pace she desired and could eat whatever her palette craved.

"I feel..." Hermione breathed to herself, before quickly stopping – she had to get out of the habit of thinking aloud, she knew – Draco got cross when he mistook her for making conversation.  
"You feel what?" Draco asked, looking at her curiously. Hermione gulped, smiled, and said:

"I feel alive."

* * *

It was one thing to be with someone who was stared at, and it was another to be that person. Hermione kept her head up high but did not smile at her fellow acquaintances; she clung to Draco's arm like a lifeline and was pleased that he did not make her let go.

They made their way through the Ministry Atrium, the only floor with a space large enough to accommodate all the staff at once. Hermione saw members of the Order that she used to be a part of, faces from Hogwarts, even a few from Durmstrang, but still she said nothing to anyone. And vice versa.

"I'm expected to make a rather large donation tonight," Draco drawled without care as to who heard. "But after a few acts by the Ministry I'm second guessing my decision to do so. Can we trust the Ministry to look after the children when they can't look after the adults?"

Hermione glanced at Draco quickly, making sure he looked as sarcastic as he sounded. He met her eye and grinned.

"Can't say I disagree," Hermione murmured, noting a few ladies off to the side who were staring at Draco. The pair of them were gathering a lot of eyes tonight.

Not without reason, of course. Nobody had seen or heard from Hermione in a year – many people who recognised her looked as though they'd seen a ghost, yet avoided her like the plague, and Draco was looking dapper in a grey three-piece suit – Hermione had never said she preferred a vest, but she was sure he knew, since he was wearing many of them recently.

The first reporter to approach the pair was from The London Daily, who asked Draco for an inside scoop on some business Hermione didn't understand, and then almost walked away before recognising the war hero. Draco put a stop to the questions before the reporter had even opened his mouth.

"I assure you that whatever question you ask her will be more prudently answered by the head of the Wizengamot, who is mysteriously absent from tonight's charity event," Draco said silkily. "Please direct your questions elsewhere."

The reporter raised an inquisitive eyebrow and hurried away, writing notes on his notepad furiously.

"Thank you," Hermione whispered, her fingers digging in to Draco's arm painfully.  
"It was only a matter of time before they approached you," Draco murmured, nodding his head towards another reporter headed their way. "Shall we run?"

A grin broke across Hermione's face and together they sped off through the crowd.

* * *

They couldn't elude the nosey reporters forever and it took quite some time for word to spread that Draco and Hermione would not be answering any sort of questions, and that relevant ones may be directed to the appropriate representative of the Wizengamot, and no, it most certainly was not their business what they were up to together. Hermione couldn't resist rolling her eyes so hard it felt like they'd pop out of her head.

It was as she was snickering into her hand at a rather nasty comment Draco made about the papers that she made eye contact with a person she did not expect to see, at a Ministry charity event no less.

"George?"

The name slipped out before Hermione realised what she was doing. The Weasley twin broke out in a grin and waved at her exuberantly, before taking a moment to excuse himself from – who was that, some quidditch player? – and making his way over to her. Slowly, Hermione let her fingers slide off Draco's arm.

"Hermione! I can't believe you're here, I didn't think I'd see you again, you look so amazing, how are you? I haven't heard from you in _yonks_ and I've been hearing all these rumours – how are you, Malfoy? Good? – and I've been meaning to write but the shop's been so busy –"  
"Slow down George, I can barely keep up," Hermione giggled. "What are you doing here? No offence, of course I'm happy to see you, but it's a ministry event?"  
"All the business owners in Diagon Alley were invited," George said quickly, waving his hand. "La di da, magical community, local businesses, just a whole lot of codswallop, really. Only came for the free booze. Speaking of –"

He reached out to a passing waiter and gathered three flutes of champagne, handing them out to Hermione and Draco pleasantly.

"Happy donating," he toasted, a twinkle in his eye that Hermione had long missed. The small party all sipped their glasses, Draco with a scowl on his face.  
"Holding a bloody charity event and couldn't even dip in their own wallets to provide a little better wine," he scoffed. "So, Weasley, handed in your check yet?"  
"They'll have to kill me for it," George replied darkly. "I've got more important priorities than the orphanage."  
"I didn't even know they had an orphanage," Hermione admitted, suddenly realising how much had changed since she was jailed.  
"They don't," Draco said quietly.

Well, not everything had changed.

"I'm so glad that you found your parents, 'Mione," George said after smacking his lips together. A cold shard of ice ran through Hermione's chest. "Ron said it was a bloody miracle. Where were they? Tasmania?"

Hermione felt like the floor was crumbling beneath her. Draco's fingers were biting into her skin, his body stiff as concrete. It took all of Hermione's courage to choke out her sentence.

"My parents are dead, George."

Champagne sprayed her face, but it was of no consequence. Distantly, she heard Draco take lead in the conversation, allowing her to be overwhelmed in her grief whilst he dealt with George. The web of lies that Harry and Ron had created was finally settling in for Hermione - she had known, of course, that there was a cover up, that she bore the brunt of the consequences of their actions during the war – but she had assumed that others knew too. That people other than Draco had figured it out.

Her life had been turned upside down in her absence and she wasn't even sure who her real friends were anymore.

In her shock, she felt sturdy arms wrap around her waist. "If I had known…" George whispered. "Words can't even describe."

"Thank you," Hermione replied, but she wasn't sure if she meant it.

* * *

 _Hermione,_

 _We as a family are ashamed of ourselves for believing the lies we were told about you. We have always considered you our daughter and we regret not being there for you in your time of need. Harry and Ron are both paying the price for their hasty actions. Perhaps one day you can forgive them for their misdeeds, but until then, you will always be in our hearts._

 _Molly._

* * *

"The justice system doesn't work the same way for wizards as it does muggles," Draco reminded Hermione. "Our punishments are much more severe. We rely on strict parenting and efficient education to teach, groom, conform – the rest is up to the individual. Peer policing is the only option for us. It is difficult to police a whole country of people that isn't meant to exist. The ministry interferes when it's serious, and that's all. There's no time to waste on anything other than the most serious of crimes."

"And what happens to me?" Hermione whispered, deep in her bout of depression. It happened sometimes. Some days, she missed the safety of her cell. "What happens now that I've been convicted and released?"  
"You're expected to return to the community in tip-top shape and continue to support the ministry in it's endeavours," Draco replied.  
"And if I don't want to?"  
"You're a bit old to start another revolution, love."

* * *

"Harry and Ron were my best friends," Hermione said firmly. "I do understand why they made their choice. I am not impressed with it. I do not condone it. But I do understand."

"You are too kind for this," Draco grumbled, but Hermione hushed him.

"That's why I came to lunch today," Hermione continued, managing a small smile. "Despite what has happened between us three, you were all in the dark. I need you to understand what I do now. Harry and Ron had blinded you with lies and deceit, and you had no reason to doubt them. I am not resentful, or mad, or disappointed with any of you. I love you just as much now as I did before I went to Azkaban."

A little chill went through each of the Weasley's at her words, but the smiles she received were genuine.

"However."

And suddenly, each smile dropped. Molly's was the first to go, followed by Arthur's. Then Ginny, Bill, and George.

"Harry and Ron are no longer a part of my life. Despite my understanding, I am not okay with them putting me in jail. They used me as a scapegoat for their crimes and I suffered. I suffered so damn much. I will never be the same. And truthfully, I hope they rot in jail just like I did."

The venom in Hermione's voice may have shocked the Weasley's, but Draco had grown accustomed to it. He was proud of her for speaking without a single tremor.

"I hope they do too."

It was George who had spoken. Hermione almost chuckled, but realised it would be inappropriate. She grasped his hand in hers as a sign of solidarity.

"Not forever," George amended, though he sounded regretful. "But for a while. A long while."  
"George!" Molly gasped, dumbfounded.  
"That is what's just, Mum," Ginny agreed.

* * *

On the seventeenth of January, it was announced that all witches and wizards between the ages of seventeen and twenty-five were expected to marry.

"Who's going to marry a disgraced war hero like you?" Draco snapped. Hermione bristled.  
"Shove off, Malfoy. You're a bigger disgrace than I am."  
"I am a very eligible bachelor, thank you very much."  
"Too bad you've got that tiny dark mark on your arm, eh?"

Draco glared at Hermione, his fingers twitching like he'd very much like to push Hermione up against a wall. She revelled in seeing this darker side of him; it was so rare that he lost control.

"I suggest you watch your tone," he growled.  
"Why? It's not like we don't know you were a traitor until the end," Hermione pushed, her voice climbing in octave. "Switching sides at the last minute like the snake you are –"  
"Shut your mouth."  
"My scars will heal," Hermione continued. "Yours will remain forever. You're damaged goods, Malfoy!"  
"Then what does that make you?" Draco shouted. "If I'm damaged goods, then you're just fucking rubble aren't you? A pitiful reminder of what used to be."

The words stung, but it wasn't anything that Hermione hadn't thought about herself. Draco's anger was palatable, though, and she couldn't resist pushing him further, wondering what he would look like if he lost control completely –

"Look at you, standing there bold as fucking brass. Can't get any words out though. You're an empty shell, Granger. I can hide my mark. Your scars show with every breath you take."

Hermione raised a brow.

"Has mummy's passing got you a bit sensitive tonight?"

It was a low blow and she knew it, but she couldn't resist. Draco had received the note from St Mungo's this morning at breakfast, along with the Prophet baring the shitty news. It had been a rough day.

"I said shut your mouth."  
"Or what? You'll make me?"

Hermione's pulse increased as Draco stalked his way over to her and pushed her roughly on her shoulders, forcing her to take a step back.

"Or I'll make you leave," he breathed. "And then what will you have? Nothing."  
"I have plenty," Hermione retorted. "I've never needed you."  
"Just wanted, then."

* * *

Draco had a rather large cabinet full of crystal glass that Hermione decided to break. Only after she'd thrown every glass against the wall, repaired them, and threw them again, did she stop crying.

God only knew what time it was. It was pitch black outside the manor windows, the fireplace glowing with hot coals. Maybe they stayed that way all the time. Hermione didn't know, and didn't that feel wonderful?

"Empty shell," she repeated to herself. "Damaged goods. Rubble. Pieces. Broken."

She sunk to the floor, the cold stone walls seeping through her clothes and creating shivers, but Hermione welcomed the cold like an old friend – one she'd lost at sea a long time ago.

Distantly, she heard shouting, and she wondered if Draco was more insane than she thought. Than herself. Was it possible?

He was splayed out on the floor like a starfish when she finally found him. Whiskey was spilled around him, over him, everywhere. He didn't move when Hermione entered and lay beside him, entwining her fingers through his.

"Maybe it's you who needs me," she whispered.  
"I don't need anyone, Granger. Get out."

She didn't budge and he didn't either.

* * *

"George wants to meet at Fortescue's after lunch."  
"Have a good time."  
"You're invited too, dunghead."

Draco barely lifted his eyes from his paper. "Busy," he said. "Bogged down with these applications."  
"I can't believe you're actually doing this," Hermione snapped, ripping the paper from his hands. "Look at me in the eye and tell me you really believe you'll find someone worth marrying by reading their damned resumes."

Draco stared at Hermione as he replied. "I'll find someone, all right. Someone who I've chosen, on my terms, with aspects that I find desirable. Someone who already knows what they're signing up for, hence why they've applied for this position."

Hermione snorted at his ludicrousness. "No one knows what they're signing up for with you, Malfoy. You're too much of a bloody enigma. You've got just as much chance at finding love proposing to a stranger on the street than you do with choosing a girl based on a piece of paper with lies written all over it."

"It's not about love, Granger," Draco said quietly. "It's about finding someone who would be most suited for me and my circumstance."  
"What on earth – what _circumstance_?" Hermione demanded.  
"You."  
"Oh gee, thanks, Malfoy," she snapped. "I'm not some animal that needs shelter, you know."  
"No, you're my friend, and I'm looking after you and that is final," Draco said.

After a second, he stood. "These applications are for you," he murmured, gesturing to a pile considerably larger than the one he was currently working on.  
"I thought that was the 'no' pile," Hermione admitted.  
"It is."

Hermione frowned, her eyes flicking from the paper, to the floor, to Draco, and back again. Her mind was going into overdrive.

"Hang on, I'm confused," Hermione said, shaking her head roughly in an attempt to clear it. "I thought you put out the ad to find yourself a wife."  
"I did," Draco said. "I also put one out for you."  
"How humiliating," Hermione mumbled.  
"Considerable though the response was, there are several unacceptable applicants," Draco continued, gesturing to the large pile again. "Though if you would like to double check –"

"I'll take my chances with the strangers on the street," Hermione sniffed, stalking out of the room.

* * *

"He was only trying to help."  
"It's humiliating, George. The whole of London probably saw that ad."  
"Not the muggles."  
"Not helping."  
"I think it's a great idea. Might put one out for myself. Though I think Angie would be a bit upset."  
"Can hardly understand why."

* * *

"No one is good enough for you, Hermione. Every single one of these blokes is a daft blunderhead."  
"Maybe you should try Scotland next, I do like redheads."  
"Seriously? No."  
"Days like this make me wish I was back in my stupid cell. Harry and Ron don't have to deal with this."  
"Ah, yes. The pros of conviction. How you should miss the good old days."  
"Just saying."

* * *

It wasn't the first time she had woken screaming, but it was the first time that there was someone by her side.

"Shh, I'm here, you're safe. I'm here."  
"Draco?"  
"You're safe, I promise," he whispered.

He was kneeling beside her bed, grasping onto her hand with both of his as though in prayer. His hands were cold around her sweaty one, but he didn't seem to mind.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. Draco rest his head on their hands.  
"I have them too," he admitted. "Go back to sleep."  
"Why aren't you sleeping too?"  
"My nightmares don't end when I wake up."

Fuck, Hermione understood that all too well.

* * *

"It's three weeks until we're supposed to announce to the ministry who we're marrying," Hermione announced at breakfast.  
"Like I needed a reminder," Draco grumbled.  
"How are the applications coming along?"  
"All dead ends. And running into strangers on the street?"  
"Haven't left the house to do so."  
"We're doomed then," Draco grinned. "Maybe we'll have cells next to each other in Azkaban, eh?"

For that was the punishment for remaining single. Jail time. The ministry wasn't screwing around.

"I'm not going back to that place, Draco," Hermione said, and she was pleased to know that in her heart, she meant it. Draco met her eyes and she didn't know what he saw there – determination, or maybe an insane twinkle – but whatever it was, it made him smile.

"I won't let you, love."

* * *

It was time to breach the subject Hermione hated most.

"There's a house in Knotting Hill that I like," Hermione said conversationally. The following silence was deadly.

"I didn't realise you were looking," Draco replied stiffly.  
"I can't rely on you forever, Draco. You know this. Besides, we've only got two more weeks."  
"Yeah, two more weeks until the do or die. So either the ministry goes through with putting everyone in jail or they don't and abolish the law. Just wait it out."

Hermione looked at her nails. They were dirty from her day in the garden. She had a row of flowers that were her own now, and they were growing nicely.

"Hermione… I don't want you to go anywhere." _  
_"I don't want to leave," Hermione whispered. Her hands were shaking and her breath was coming in short pants but _god_ this moment was so important and if she could just –

"Then stay."

Hermione's eyes flicked up to meet Draco's. He had moved from his place beside the fire and now stood only a few feet away from her. Half his face was covered in shadow.

"You can't be on your own," he continued. "You can't handle it and you know it. I'm the only one who can look after you."  
"You're the only one crazy enough to want to," Hermione scoffed. Draco smirked in response.  
"You're crazy, I'm crazy. There's no one else out there who can match us. May as well stick together."

* * *

Three days later they flipped a coin.

Heads, he proposed. Tails, she did.


End file.
